Archive for November, 2006

read me oh read me

well it’s sad to see the glass house finish up for good / i imagine i shall now turn to the commercial networks for evening chill-time / perhaps some kind of dancing reality show / maybe a gritty & american crime/drama series / there’s some kind of lament for televised political satire in this somewhere / if only i could keep awake / & the cat is ringing that infernal bell of his / caleb is talking in his sleep / what thread of a thesis stands a chance / don’t often hear planes here / the rumble of the xpt at times / i love the abandoned roads of days gone by / they lurk only metres from new highways / grass tufts here & there / no-one travels them now / & who will next claim we live in ‘modern times’ / that the pace of living is ‘hectic’ / things are slowing down / shows are being canceled & my books are gathering a clumping variety of dust / insects are back for the summer / tally-ho

a sydney book launch

the ‘idol’ phenomenon courses
not two horizons over as i half sleep in
the cheapest most unassuming ultimo hotel it’s
all an industrial air vent my prize for laziness
towels that sweat out the hope of fabric softener
sweetly hang & do their thing / shannon noll is
one specific ‘national’ reference amongst many i mark him
& write (at least one to spite my tiredness; my wine slump)
it’s allowed here though his growl is almost a semi-tone out as
it flies pumped over the cheapest opera house sydney
can manage: vertexes are paper-thin in the haze
of forgotten bushfires & the luck of phone-polls
catching a bus down there means catching the plague
instead i spend an afternoon flirting with the ‘almost-air’
conducting the longest discussion on publishing as a means to writing
four poets might see in a year / this lansdowne meeting like other things
ends in a conclusion that is self-congratulatory but marred
the necessity of irony bitches on & concepts line up to be admitted or
recognised throwing in the weight of my signature i allude to
greater moments / i purchase cocopops in the 7-11
this conquest of an evening goes ‘alright’ like my
voice tinged with alcohol & croaky missingyouness
the reverse charges sinking into obscurity as
i flounder on the verge of caring / the next idol
sensation remains unannounced when i sleep
it’s a rest shaped & coloured by determinism
at last i put the idle book to bed

lets turn everything down a notch…

well the publication process for fourW seventeen is practically over. still a heap of copies to send out – to the national library et cetera, but luckily as editor i don’t have to do these things. my official duties are over.

the sydney launch was cool. despite being exhausted with only 3 hours sleep the night before, i soldiered on, and entertained all guests & contributors with my wit and pizazz. met some people; it was fun. bronwyn blaiklock came up which was a surprise – she recently had some work in another anthology i contributed to, page seventeen. check her work out there or in fourW. so a few drinks at the lansdowne hotel, a terrible nights sleep in a room next to some kind of industrial ventilation shaft, & i am finally home.

& my copy of meanjin finally arrived. it is good to get it, to see my name, but i would have liked to get it a long time ago. an oversight. oh well. publishing is a hard business. i am tired. i’m just gonna write some poetry for a while. maybe i’ll post you blog-people some now & then. over.


off to albury tomorrow. john butler is one of the artists i haven’t managed to see live yet. for some reason. but tommorow i get to break that drought. his last album was really solid; a new one next year should be good.

other bands playing tomorrow in albury include the audreys, the hilltop hoods, you am i. i have seen you am i many times – tim rogers is always be worth seeing perform. some groups are notable for musical invention, but tim rogers has lyrical ability, his poetry. this is from the song ’28′.

heaven’s to betsy now we’re 28 and what is there to do?

we hardly even talk no more but to you i’ll be true

tell me that you feel the same even though i knew

everything that you say right before it came from you

art house movies and flat renovations

newspaper politic and dinner reservations, oh

and monday’s a wine appreciation course

talk about the drugs that you just wont touch no more

what a breeze just help me off my knees

he’s a writer of realism & cliche, great concrete language. even the “do do do do”s after the chorus add to the slow & lazy regret of the song. anyway…

social conscience prodding blues will be juxtaposed with urban adult-contemporary rock. should be fun.

& i’ll be in sydney on sunday for our final fourW launch. see ya’ll there. what happens in glebe on a sunday night. anyone wanna go for some drinks?

easy as 123

you find yourself at home sometimes / 2.01 pm / the guy next-door incessantly banging something / heat backing off / poetry competition to judge / the theme of ‘respect’ haunting you / birds tweet on the roof / getting dead in a few days / charities pester you for money on the phone / did you know men get breast cancer too? / sure you did / but that won’t keep her quiet / only 50,000 needed / good posture is something you romanced once / romance was something you imagined / specific references in your writing were meant to be a thing of the past / the past gets bigger & vaguer / actresses were all born in the 80s now / jaya savige has a premier’s award under his belt / what type of belt would he wear? / crocodile skin? / south-bank tres-chic? / i’ve never been to darwin / or launceston / what treasures lurk there? / you find yourself becoming a pirate / at the end-of-the-world there is this sheer drop / the ocean just drains out into nothingness / i still believe there will be a new development in toothpaste

listening to wires by art of fighting / a melbourne band – slow tempo indie / i like it / i love it:

“won’t you do something, with me tonight, under this pretty sky”

fitzroy is a quiet village

& web addresses chalked on the concrete
prove as misleading as the christmas
window displays challenging long fingered
agitators polarise the police, a sportive gesture
but then there’s always tunes getting halfway
through a disc with no recognisable jangle the
average punter happily frisbees that investment
people look stupidly on & don’t want something to
‘remind them’ emotion is alien & so on the way
we get not good enough, not if we buy shoes &
know what’s good for us see a cute kitten &
slogan splashed on the wall this morning it’s
a much more valid connection a fifty dollar
vintage record that speaks of this smile
(recognition) floating above this time, this
morning, this brunswick street idea of culture,
it says perhaps all will be right? the solution
inevitably to pick the next track set for single
release but how else could an endless hungover
sunday play out? there you go

fame & latex

i think i don’t really write a ‘prize-wining’ sort of poetry. hard to say why. i guess i see prize-winning poems as much more considered, crafted, & some other quality i can’t put into words. my poetry is definitely publishable, but to hold one of my pieces up & say ‘this is the best in the book’ would seem strange. i like the imperfections. the disruptions.

so for one thing, the piece i’m reading tomorrow uses ‘like’ in that most un-poetic sense. i’m thinking like, this is probably like, something that counts against a poem? the interjection of abject un-fucking-certainty? but rather than go back & edit out imperfections i keep them – the poem sorta stays in amongst language then, if that makes any sense. not like wordsworth & his ‘language that men really speak’ (man he went on about ‘men’ & his place amongst them, i suspect there was some sort of anxiety lurking there) it’s more a language that is in touch with contemporary usage, but can still gesture towards utter complexity when i feel like it. sometimes i do. sometimes i don’t.

so i suspect i shall add to my list of accomplishments: ‘shortlisted for best poem in minor australian lit. mag’. that’s cool. any melbourne readers i shall see you at the queen of tarts cafe tomorrow, 3.30.

& yeah, latex. like, to be continued.

if i wasn’t so much better than most people (i refer specifically to the use of metaphor) i wouldn’t dare write about it in a poem, would i?

i have nothing else
to say
& if you think
about it this
is not really
a poem or
is it do you


been having fun today tinkering with chapbook production. & this is the result. still some bugs in it, i think mainly due to me struggling to convert americanized directions from the DIY site. (get with the metric system america…)

anyway escaping over trees is a collection of the material i wrote this year. if anyone would like a copy send me a message, & i would be happy to send you the file so you can print it off yourself.

or, for a small fee (say $5) i could put together copies for people, sign them & send them. as yet i have no plans to mass-market, make mega-profits, & take over the world. that shall all have to wait for another day. maybe tomorrow. goodnight all.

i can be funner

a quarter past eleven / waiting for the spin cycle to finish / then bed / last night i hit laurinda in my sleep / i was struggling with someone in my sleep / the violence of the subconscious that is me / the boys are dynamic / each one brings us something unique / perhaps / printed bernstein’s ‘asylums’ / richard was talking about revision on his blog / (talking, thinking, acting are the same) / yeah the work informs the effortless new / all about heuristic readiness / maybe / downloaded feedreader / very cool to survey all these poets in one shot / cordite are paying me $60 for a poem / i am rich / once i bought beer sat near the semi-lagoon in the middle of town drank read hemingway all day / nothing was finer / then i went home kicked the door down / spin cycle has jerked to a close

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